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Sunday, 21 August 2016

Ten Women - Marcela Serrano (translated by Beth Fowler)

Throughout my literary journey, which has lasted publicly
for five years here on my blog, I have explored a number of literary styles.
And my journey for the last two months has been solely based on literature
originally published in Spanish and from Central or South America. I’m still in
the region, this time returning to the written word from Chile, and Marcela
Serrano’s “Ten Women”.

In a nutshell this book is made up of monologues of nine
women who have been brought to a venue in a mini-bus specifically to address
the audience of the other women present. They are all patients of Natasha,
their therapist has arranged the meeting for them to talk about their lives in
an open forum.

If you are after a well-crafted novel that follows a plot,
then straight off the bat here, you are not going to like this one iota. And
although it is probably a decent criticism of this work, that there is no plot,
it does not mean that it is unreadable, poorly crafted, or even unworthy of
your reading pleasure. In fact this book is highly addictive, has many layers,
is moving in so many ways, and addresses numerous political, social and
environmental issues specific to Chile as well as being a strong feminist
mouthpiece.

From the opening, the introduction of sorts, as the women
gather, aged between nineteen and seventy-five, we know that this is going to
become a raw expose;

Beneath the black vest or pink
blouse, wasn’t each woman endowing herself with resolve, gathering courage for
the day ahead?? Their appearances today are certainly honest, there’s no
interference from jobs, offices, or formalities that might pigeonhole them; the
way they have come today is the way they truly are.

A few of the voices to give you a feel for what is in store
here…opening is Francisca, fortysomething, successful in real estate, less so
in her life in general and even less so in her relationship with her mother. Or
the assured voice of Simona, well read, who comes from a privileged background,
who meditates, and based on Buddhist teachings, lives in the present moment. Or
Mané;

My name is Mané and I’m just as
you see me. I was always the prettiest. I’m five foot eight and a half, which
is tall for this country, and I weigh a hundred and thirty pounds. Even today,
in spite of my age, I still keep an eye on my weight, although I’m the only one
to see my body. I turned seventy-five a couple of months ago. There was barely
a celebration.

I used to be gorgeous. It’s a shame
I have to say it in the past tense. No one says “I am gorgeous” and even less “I
will be gorgeous.” Well, that’s all I’ve got: the past. Sunset Boulevard, a movie from the fifties, reminds me of my life.
That must be why I find it so moving. Starring, Gloria Swanson, it’s based on
the life of Norma Desmond, a great Hollywood silent-movie actress who starred
in dozens of movies, a true diva who had the world at her feet. By the time she’d
aged, she wanted to return to acting and seduction but everyone had abandoned
her. All the directors and producers who once sang her praises turned their
backs on her. She was no use to them anymore, but this was something she
refused to accept. They didn’t even answer her phone calls. She was rotting,
alone and abandoned. Like me.

The personal shame of ageing, such a moving and honest
voice, brilliantly captured by a writer who herself could only have been in her
late fifties (at most) when she wrote this. Each of the characters have such
assured voices, even if their tales are, in many cases, horrific, the
characters are happy in their own skin. Throughout the pervading feeling is
that Natasha, as a therapist, must be extremely successful in her work.

Natasha said that only by telling
her could I take control of this story. That’s what I am doing today. In order
to recover, every survivor needs to be able to take charge of her memories. We
need others for that. Today I’m burdening you as witnesses. The load is heavy.

I’m worn out.

We have the brutal story of a Palestinian, Layla, exiled in
Chile and her return to the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, her subsequent
memories, or Luisa from the country who only loved one man, a man who was taken
away, at three-thirty in the morning, still in his pyjamas, a few months after
the 11 September 1973 Military coup. Or the tale of a young teenage lesbian
coming to terms with her sexuality, and a popular television presenter who
cannot sleep without medication or face who she really is.

As I mentioned earlier, this is a gripping work, the honest,
true voices of the women who are undergoing therapy, for numerous reasons,
haunt you from the first page until the last. A realistic picture of life under
the paternalistic rule of Pinochet, a view from so many angles. The
presentation of nine monologues adds to the non-fiction meta-fiction style,
even if the stories are in fact fiction, they appear almost interview like and
therefore the realism of the situation rings true. The final “woman” character
being Natasha, the therapist herself, her tale told by her lifelong assistant,
and to me this section almost seems tacked on, a nice tidy way of rounding out
the stories, how can we have the therapist calling all these women here without
an explanation? Nine monologues, one third person story to round it out. A really
flat way to end what would otherwise be a fine work.

There are also a few typos and the Americanisation of simple
things (like Mané’s height and weight in the example above) is quite
frustrating given Chile has been on the metric system since 1848 (in fact it is
compulsory!). But these are just small idiosyncrasies that every 40 or fifty
pages or so detract from the overall work.

All in all, this is another decent inclusion on the “Women
In Translation Month” listings, another interesting work from Chile, and I
still have a number of works from there on my “to be read” piles, don’t worry I
will be back!!